The Anatomy of Deception (39 page)

Farnshaw reached across and grabbed my wrist in a clawlike grip much like that of Turk just before he died. “I’m afraid, Carroll.”

“Anyone would be,” I said, although the words, I knew, would have no meaning.

I left Farnshaw minutes later. He urged me to stay so that he would not have to go back to his cell, but I could not dally at Moko if I hoped to find evidence to free him. I could feel how close I was to success. While the journal, if Simpson was correct, would provide ballast for an alternative version of the events, it was unlikely to be enough to turn the tide by itself. Any other bit of information that I could unearth, however, might be sufficient, when added to the journal, to force even Borst to admit he had acted without sufficient cause.

I spent the day going over the events, reviewing everything
that had transpired, looking for weak spots in Borst’s case. The most damning evidence, other than the written record, was Turk’s announcement at The Fatted Calf that “George” was his associate. If Simpson was correct and Turk had a constant need to demonstrate how clever he was, might he have boasted to an intimate down there of his scheme to create a scapegoat?

I arrived at about ten that night. As I dismounted my carriage, Keuhn jumped from his and accosted me. For the past two days, he had contented himself to be a shadow, but that was apparently at an end. “Mr. Lachtmann isn’t happy with you, Doc. He thinks that you ain’t been taking him seriously about butting out.”

“Why? Because I went to see Farnshaw?”

“Don’t play us for fools, Doc. It’s unhealthy.” Keuhn grinned at his joke.

“Has it occurred to Mr. Lachtmann that perhaps the wrong man is in custody and that I am doing him a favor? If I obtain the release of an innocent man, we might find the one who is guilty,” I said in reply.

“It’s occurred to Mr. Lachtmann that you’re trying to get someone off who’s guilty because he’s a friend and a ‘fellow doctor.’ It also occurred to him that you only admitted the part about the accomplice because you was scared, but once you was out of the room, you wanted to take it back, so now you’re trying to undo what you did. But, you know, Doc, it doesn’t matter what occurred to Mr. Lachtmann. It only matters that you do what he says. This, as they say, is your last warning.”

“Thank you, Keuhn,” I replied. “I understand you completely. Now, would you please step out of my way? I have no intention of going through life with you telling me where I may or may not go.”

I stepped around him and walked through the door, greeting Mike only perfunctorily. The giant actually seemed hurt that I did not acknowledge him more cordially. Once inside, I
headed for the bar. The bartender made to greet me but, when I stood stone-faced, knew to pretend to ignorance. I ordered what passed for a whiskey, and then waited until Keuhn decided that the interval was sufficiently discreet to make his appearance.

Less than two minutes later, he sidled up to the bar himself. Glancing at the shot glass in front of me, he ordered a whiskey as well. As the rules of our little theater dictated, he never acknowledged my presence in public. Keuhn downed his shot and asked for another. He seemed not the least surprised at the quality of the whiskey. I, on the other hand, merely dallied for an additional moment or two, and then strolled across the room, taking care to leave my hat on the bar next to my glass. I knocked on the door of the office and announced myself. A moment later, I was asked to enter.

As I did, Haggens was just closing a drawer of his desk, looking like a guilty schoolboy. The smell of the real stuff permeated the room.

“I told you …” I began.

“Yeah, Doc, I know,” he replied. “It was my first one of the day.”

“I’m sure. Haggens,” I went on, “I need information.”

Haggens cocked his head like a spaniel. “Information? You paying?”

“No,” I said.

Haggens chewed this over. “Well, since I ain’t got your bill yet for listening to my heart, I guess I could give you some free information. You got a medical problem?” he joked.

“Thank you, no.” I asked whether Turk had ever bragged about setting up a sucker to hand to the police in case he was caught. Haggens listened carefully, and I think he would have told me had he known, but apparently Turk had said nothing to him.

“By the way,” I said. “There’s a man at the bar. He’s from the Pinkerton Detective Agency. He’s been following me.”

“You got the Pinkertons on you? That’s not good. They can be as fatal as endo … what was it?”

“Endocarditis. I’m afraid his presence has something to do with you as well, Haggens.”

Haggens emitted an exaggerated sigh. “What could that be? Me and the Pinkertons have always had kind of an understanding—we stay out of each other’s way. Kinda like you and me was supposed to do before it came to you that you like it here.”

“It’s true, Haggens. You have turned me into a Fatted Calf devotee.” I went on to relate the circumstances of the agency’s engagement by Jonas Lachtmann and Lachtmann’s obsession with avenging his daughter.

“I heard they pinched someone for that already. That other doc.”

“I fear that Lachtmann is not satisfied with Farnshaw. He intends to pressure me into revealing the identity of everyone involved, even peripherally.”

“Per … ipherally? That me, Doc?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“What about our bargain?”

“Haggens, I will do everything I can to keep our bargain—you know the affection in which I hold you—but if you are threatening me with death if I reveal your name and the Pinkertons are posing the very same threat if I don’t, it is hard to say what will eventually happen.”

Haggens scowled at me for a moment, then clapped his hands to his knees and emitted a bark of a laugh. “Ah! I see! Okay, I get it. Sorry for taking so long. That miteral … what is it?”

“Mitral stenosis.”

“Right. Miteral stenosis. Must be rotting my brain. But I got it now.” Haggens pushed himself to his feet. “It’s been a slow night anyway.” He snickered. “You just wait right here, Doc.” Haggens left the office for a few moments and, when
he returned, left the door open so that we could both see the room. Keuhn was leaning sideways against the rail with one elbow on the bar, a refilled whiskey glass in front of him. He seemed to be idly taking in the scene, but I knew he was watching me.

Through the haze, Mike appeared. For a man of his immensity, he moved with great fluidity, seeming to glide rather than walk. He went to the bar, stood next to Keuhn, and said something softly. Keuhn’s hand quickly went to his vest. He was fast but Mike was faster.

Since the dawn of time, man has dreamt of flight. Keuhn achieved it. Mike’s right hand appeared to travel less than six inches, but the force of one blow was sufficient to literally lift Keuhn off his feet and send him backward through air. I actually saw the bottom of his shoes. He landed on a table that broke apart with a splintering crack, sending a combination of wood, two customers, and the Pinkerton man crashing to the floor. Keuhn lay stunned for a moment but, tough as he was, his hand again went for his vest. Mike was again too quick for him. In one step, Mike had reached where Keuhn was lying and, with one short kick of his left foot, sent the derringer that Keuhn had drawn skittering across the floor.

Keuhn was still not beaten. Although I could not see from whence it came, at once he had a knife in his hand and was lunging for Mike’s legs. Mike sidestepped with amazing agility and, as soon as his feet were on the ground, kicked once again, this time his heavy shoe catching the Pinkerton agent square on the jaw. Keuhn rocked backward, teetered for a second or two, then fell flat, and out.

Haggens waited until Keuhn was motionless and then heaved a sigh. “That’s four tables this month,” he muttered. “I wish Mike could learn to be more careful.” Then he motioned for me to go with him to where Keuhn was struggling to blink himself back into sensibility.

Haggens fetched a shot of brandy which, if it was anything like the champagne, was more likely to kill Keuhn than
bring him around. I gave him water instead. Haggens leaned down and spoke to him.

“Look, pally,” he said, exuding the same casual menace with which he had first greeted me, “I’ve dealt with you folks before. I don’t eat your soup and you don’t eat mine. You can tell your boss or whoever hired you that you’ve got all you’re gonna get. And as for the doc, here … well, he’s a friend of mine, savvy?” Haggens then spoke to the bartender, and within five minutes a couple of ruffians had showed up to carry Keuhn out.

“Will it work?” I asked, when the Pinkerton man had been carted off. “Will they really leave me … us … leave us alone?”

“Oh, yeah,” Haggens replied, as if I had just asked him if the sun would come up in the morning. “Can’t keep a reputation for muscle if you get out-muscled. They’ll leave you be for now, until you leave town anyways. But they’re gonna remember you … if you run afoul of them again, watch out. But for now … well, I recommend that you just try to avoid nervous stress.”

“Very funny,” I muttered. I walked to the bar to where Mike had downed a series of whiskies to no visible effect. “Thank you, Mike. That was most impressive.”

The giant smiled. It was the first time I had ever seen him do so and I noticed that he was missing more than a few teeth. “Glad to oblige … Doc.” He drank two more shots in quick succession. “Well,” he said, “back to work,” and ambled toward the front door, as if he had come inside to use the toilet instead of to bludgeon a thug into submission. I wondered if I appeared so nonchalant after an autopsy.

“Got a few minutes for an old friend?” It was Haggens, who had followed me to the bar.

“What old friend is that?”

“Follow me.” Haggens led me to a section of the room that, at least by comparison, was relatively tranquil. He walked over to a table for two, and waved his arm with a flourish at one of the occupants.

“I think you two know each other,” he said.

“Hi, Ephie.”

“Hello, Monique.”

She shook her head. “Got tired of Monique. I’m Collette these days.”

“Then hello, Collette.” I bowed. “And who is your friend?”

“She’s Danielle,” she said with a laugh, gesturing to the woman next to her. Danielle was flaxen-haired and thin, with the hardened look that was
de rigueur
at Bonhomme’s Paris Revue. I remembered her as the woman in the dressing room who had made no effort to cover her breasts.

“Am I allowed to just call you Brigid?” I asked “Collette,” remembering that Borst had told me that Brigid O’Leary was her real name.

“Well,” she replied, “seeing how you’re almost family …”

“And your friend?”

“Danielle,” she said coldly. “You’re not family with me.”

“Aren’t you dancing tonight?” I asked Brigid.

“Nah,” she replied. “Needed to be off my feet for a bit.” I let that pass. “Took a night off.”

“Very well,” I said. “May I join you?” Brigid might not have looked as good as the first time I saw her, but nor did she look as bad as the second.

“Of course, Ephie. You can always join us.”

As I pulled up a chair, a bottle of presumptive champagne arrived at the table. “On the house,” grunted the waitress who brought it.

Danielle showed more interest. “You could be family, though,” she said.

“Back off,” Brigid growled. “If he’d be anybody’s he’d be mine, but Ephie don’t go in for the likes of us. He prefers so-ci-e-ty types.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Word gets around,” she replied. “But why talk about such things now? Let’s drink.”

The champagne had not improved with age, nor had
Brigid’s life. Recent events had brought her some unwanted attention from Sergeant Borst, while the attention she would have wanted, that of well-to-do males, seemed as elusive as ever. Danielle recounted similar tales of life’s cruelties. It was odd to be sitting with these two downtrodden women, little more than prostitutes, and feel quite relaxed and at home. I was ashamed for having judged Brigid without charity.

Haggens’ bigheartedness did not extend beyond the bottle at the table, but I called the waitress over and asked for a second on my tab, which brightened her considerably.

Soon, I turned the conversation to Turk. Perhaps he had preferred to boast to women. “I kinda miss ol’ Georgie,” Brigid said. “He was a mean cuss when you crossed him, but he was good for a laugh and he sure did know how to spend money.”

“Sterling traits to be sure,” I agreed.

“It’s a lot easier to spend money when yer making barrels of it,” grunted Danielle.

“Yeah,” Brigid agreed. “He was kinda our Carnegie.”

I laughed. Turk as a captain of industry—or robber baron—made a more persuasive picture than they knew. I then asked, as I had with Haggens, if they were familiar with Farnshaw, the other George.

“Sure,” said Danielle. “Don’t you think I read the papers? He’s the one slipped the arsenic to Georgie. He was kinda cute. Was in here about two months ago.”

It seemed, however, that, like Haggens, Brigid had seen Farnshaw but the one time. “Danielle would know better though,” said Brigid. “She and Georgie was tight.” She smiled. “Really tight, if you get my meaning.”

“So, you would know if he had … uh … associates in his business?” I asked her.

“Not personally. The one time I needed services, Georgie did it himself,” she answered. “I was lucky.”

“Lucky?”

“Yeah. Georgie wasn’t real good at it. Word was getting around that maybe he wasn’t worth the risk. A little bit after
that, he got someone else to do the work. He was the one took the money, though.”

“You mean the other Georgie? He did the work? That’s what the police say anyway.”

“Maybe,” said Danielle. “But I always figured it was the old guy.”

“Old guy?” I asked. I felt a reflex to start, but tried to cover it by taking a sip from my glass. “What did he look like?”

“Little fella. Dressed like a millionaire. I ain’t never seen a collar so white.”

“Did he have glasses?” I asked.

“Yeah. The ones without the hooks for your ears. Why? D’you know him?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I might. He was clean-shaven, am I correct?”